She was dressed, as she always had dressed after luncheon, in black satin duchesse, a quiet elegance which I think rather created an illusion that she was stout, and as she arranged her needlework aside in order to chat to me, she sighed as matronly ladies are wont to sigh during the drowsy after-luncheon hours. From time to time I turned and laughed with Mary as she gaily sought my opinion on this and on that. She was dressed in dark blue serge trimmed with narrow white braid, her sailor hat cast aside lying on the grass, a smart river costume of a _chic_ familiar to me in the fashion-plates of the ladies' papers. As she lay back, her head pillowed on the cushion, there was in her eyes that coquettish smile, and she laughed that ringing musical laugh as of old. A boatful of merrymakers went by, looking across, and no doubt envying us our ease, for sculling out there in the blazing sun could scarcely be a pleasure. Judging from their appearance they were shop-assistants making the best of the Thursday early-closing movement--a movement which happily gives the slaves of suburban counters opportunity for healthful recreation. The boat was laden to overflowing, and prominent in the bows was the inevitable basket of provisions and the tin kettle for making tea. "It's too hot, as yet, to go out," Mary said, watching them. "We'll go later." "Very well," Dick answered. "I shall be delighted. I love the river, but since my Cambridge days I've unfortunately had but little opportunity for sculling." "You newspaper men," observed Mrs. Blain, addressing me, "must have very little leisure, I think. The newspapers are always full. Isn't it very difficult to fill the pages?" "No," I answered. "That's a common error. To every newspaper in the kingdom there comes daily sufficient news of one sort or another to fill three sheets the same size. The duty of the journalist, if, of course, he is not a reporter or leader-writer, is to make a judicious selection as to what he shall publish and what he shall omit. It is this that wears out one's brains." "But the reporters," she continued--"I mean those men who go and hunt up details of horrors, crimes and such things--are they well paid?" That struck me as a strange question, and I think I must have glanced at her rather inquiringly. "They are paid as well as most professions are paid nowadays," I answered. "Better, perhaps, than some." "And their duty is to make inquiries and scrape up all kinds of details, just like detectives, I've heard it said. Is that so?" "Exactly," I replied. "One of the cleverest men in that branch of journalism is our friend here, Mr. Cleugh." She looked at the man I indicated, and I thought her face went slightly paler. It may, however, only have been in my imagination. "Is he really one of those?" she inquired in a low undertone.